Under The Influence
by NeonicPoizon
Summary: Greg invites Sherlock to go out and get drinks with him for his birthday. Sherlock reluctantly obliges. The celebration ends, and DI Lestrade ends up making a few drunk mistakes. Warning: Dark Oneshot. Rated M for rape, use of alcohol, and a bit of language.


"Sherrrrlawwwwk!" John yelled from downstairs. He knew that Sherlock would be zoned out in a chair somewhere, completely unaware of anything that he yelled, so ran up the stairs and searched for him. He walked through the kitchen, made his way through the living room, and then opened Sherlock's bedroom door. He flipped the light switch on, looked around for any signs of Sherlock, and then- after coming to the conclusion that his flat mate wasn't in his room, either- he turned the light off and left. He then walked over to the washroom, cautiously knocking on the door. He stood there for a moment, but received no response. He then slowly pushed the door open and peered inside. The first thing he noticed was the pair of shiny black dress shoes protruding from the tub. One was rhythmically swinging side to side, propped up on the other.

"Sherlock!"

John walked over to the tub and looked down at the grown man awkwardly positioned in it. Sherlock was laying flat on his back, a bit leaning to the right. He had his arms folded over his chest like a dead man, and his eyes were closed. The classical music that he was listening to through his earbuds was blaring loud enough for John to hear.

"Hey!" John grabbed the wire connected to his earbuds and yanked it. Startled, Sherlock sprang up and smacked his head directly into his flatmate's. He then fell backwards and smacked the back of his head on the bottom of the tub. John stumbled backwards and fell on his arse, cursing obnoxiously as he grabbed his forehead.

"You fumbling twat..." Sherlock grumbled as he sat up and looked over at the man who had disturbed him. John stared at him, holding his aching forehead. He stood up and dusted himself off, then offered Sherlock a hand. Sherlock ignored the offer, using the side of the tub to help himself up. He then stepped out of the bath tub, readjusted his outfit, and asked the doctor what it was he needed so badly that he found it necessary to disturb him.

"Lestrade's here to pick you up," John said.

"Ah. Well, I told you I didn't want to go, so it would probably be best for you to inform him that I am not in need of a ride."

Sherlock walked past him and left the room. John followed him into the living room and grabbed him by the arm.

"Let go," Sherlock snapped. He turned around to look at John, who was giving him a bemused look.

"What?"

John just continued to stare at him.

"_What_?"

"I told Lestrade that you would go. You're going."

"You shouldn't have assumed that I would go. In fact, you should have known better than that. I don't like people, John. I definitely don't enjoy the company of others. You should be well aware."

"I know," John said, "And that's exactly why you're going."

"Which makes no sense."

"You're going, because you need some time around people. If you don't socialize more often, then you'll just become even more of an introvert."

"Is that really such a bad thing?"

John grabbed Sherlock's coat from off the back of the sofa, shoving it into his hands.

"Yes. Now go."

"I'm not-"

"I'll go down there, and Lestrade and I will drag you into the car if need be."

Sherlock stared at him skeptically for a few minutes, but John didn't waiver. His expression was deadpan. The shorter man was being 100% serious. If Sherlock wouldn't go by his own free will, then John would force him to go. It was as simple as that.

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted. He put his coat on and stormed off without another word. Then he realized that he had forgotten his scarf and came back. He snatched his scarf off of the chair and hastily wrapped it around his neck, then turned to John and fumed.

"Nobody's going to want me there," Sherlock said, "They'll probably try to kill me."

John rolled his eyes, taking Sherlock by his arm. He dragged him out of the room and down the stairs, stopping at the front door.

"If you need me, call my mobile. Don't worry, Sherlock, you'll be fine. Lestrade promised to keep you safe. "

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, but the doctor couldn't make out the words.

"I'll see you later," John said as he shoved the detective out of the door, "Have fun."

Sherlock stumbled out of the front door and nearly fell forward. He caught himself and stood upright, spinning around. As soon as he tried to get back into the flat, John slammed the door shut and locked it. The consulting detective patted down his pockets, but realized that John had even gone to the extent of taking his key.

He turned around and looked over at the car parked in a few feet away, Greg sitting in the driver's seat. The DI looked up and smiled, waving at him. Sherlock just stared at the man with a frown plastered on his face. Greg dropped his hand. Sherlock reluctantly walked up to the car, made his way around, and then opened the front door and stepped into the front seat. He closed the door beside him, and then grabbed the seat belt and buckled himself in. After making sure that he was secure , he looked over at the man next to him and gave him the most unenthusiastic expression possible.

"Well," Greg said as he examined the annoyed look on his friend's face, "Someone's got a stick up his arse."

"I don't want to go," Sherlock bluntly replied.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't see the point."

"The _point_ is you get to hang out with your friend and have some good fun," Gred said, nudging him with his elbow. He smiled again, but Sherlock just looked at him and let out a depressing sigh.

"I don't do fun, Lestrade. I'm bad at fun."

Greg laughed, turning the keys in the ignition. The car revved to life, and the DI pushed gently on the gas. Slowly, the vehicle began rolling down the street.

"You can do fun," Said Greg, "You just haven't tried before. Right? We'll just have to get you into the spirit."

"Into the spirit?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. Y'know. Sit you down, get you a couple of beers."

Sherlock looked out of the window, the mention of alcohol only making him ever more less excited. He realized that it was beginning to rain, although just a slight drizzle. He watched the droplets of precipitation hit his window and roll down, letting out another sigh.

"It won't be that bad," Greg continued, "I promise."

"Who else is going to be there?" Sherlock asked.

"Just a few other colleagues."

"Like?"

Lestrade began going over the list of people in his head.

"Dimmock," He said. This recieved a low groan from the consulting detective.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing."

Sherlock turned his attention back out the window.

"Who else?"

"Well, there's Dimmock, but then there's also Jack, Anne, and Phil."

Sherlock jerked his gaze back to Greg, staring intensely at him. He furrowed his brow ad stared silently at the DI for a solid five minutes before the man started to feel uncomfortable under his peculiar gaze.

"What is it?" Greg asked.

"Phil? As in Phil _Anderson_?"

"Yes," Greg sighed.

"Stop the car."

"Now, Sherlock-"

"I said stop the car. I don't want to go."

"_But you will anyway_," Greg replied, "Because it's my birthday, and _all_ I want to do is get a couple of drinks and hang out with my friends. That includes you, Sherlock. And you'll do this for me, because you owe me. You owe me _at least_ that."

Sherlock stared at the man next to him for a long while, silently mulling over what he had just said. He contemplated arguing, but knew that he'd fail. Besides, Greg was right. He owed him. He owed him a lot. After all, the man had practically saved his life. And more than once.

"Fine," Sherlock said at last. Greg's lips curled into a smile.

"I don't see why I had to come and John didn't. You invited him, too, didn't you?"

"Yeah. But John already had plans. You didn't."

Greg looked over at him and grinned. He sort of scanned Sherlock from head to toe, and then looked back up at his face. Sherlock just stared at him with a blank expression, unsure of hos to respond.

Greg parked along an old street and locked the car. He then led Sherlock a few streets over and into a large tavern, where they met with a group of people who looked somewhat familiar to Sherlock. Greg introduced him to them, and Sherlock just nodded his head, acknowledging that they existed. He caught Phil's gaze for a split second, then quickly diverted his attention elsewhere. Even though he couldn't see him, he could still feel Anderson's spiteful glare on his back.

He wanted so badly to turn around and say something to the irksome officer, but refrained from doing so because he knew that engaging in any venomous conversations while there would end up with Greg scolding him.

"I'm Anne," Said a particularly attractive blonde woman. She held her hand out to Sherlock, but he just stared at it. Greg chuckled awkwardly, dismissing Sherlock as an introvert. Phil muttered something smart under his breath, and Sherlock shot him a glare. The sergeant looked up at him and grinned smugly.

"Anyways," Greg said as he sat down at the table. "Another year older," He muttered.

Phil stood up and walked off. He returned a few minutes later with two glasses full of draft beer. He handed one to Sherlock, and then another to Greg. Greg thanked him and drank half of the glass, smirking over at Sherlock. Sherlock looked over at him, then down at the drink he had been offered. He eyeballed the contents suspiciously, then grabbed the glass and sniffed it.

"Really?" Greg asked.

"I just want to be sure Anderson didn't try to poison me."

Greg rolled his eyes. Sherlock held the glass up to his lips and hesitantly took a sip. He then chugged the entire glass and smacked it down on the table.

"That's the spirit!" Greg shouted. He gave Sherlock a firm pat on the back, and Sherlock actually smiled up at him.

Maybe this really wouldn't be that bad. Maybe he could enjoy himself...

Two hours and several drinks later, Sherlock was at the bar drinking shots with Philip Anderson, all of their differences set aside as they competed against each other in an attempt to see who could finish before the other. Anderson tipped his last shot against his lips and swallowed, slamming the small glass onto the bar. Sherlock had three small shot glasses left full, but there was no way he was going to finish them. He picked one up, but lost his balance and fell backwards. He smacked against the hardwood floor and his shot flew out of his hand, the small glass hit the floor a few feet away and shattered into pieces.

"Gotcha!" Phil yelled, pointing at him. He stumbled sideways and fell into a table, but still held up a triumphant hand. A crowd of nearby witnesses cheered him on. Sherlock struggled to get back onto his feet, and then he started swaying from side to side. He braced himself against the bar and looked around for Greg, but his vision was blurry and unfocused. He couldn't make out anyone's face.

"Oh..."

His stomach lurched. He could feel his insides growling, and then his mouth started watering. All of the signs were clear.

Quickly, Sherlock spun around and ran off. He tripped over a chair and fell onto his knees, but quickly regained himself and ran for the lou. He pushed his way into the washroom and ran over to the toilet, collapsing onto his knees as he grabbed the porcelain bowl and puked. He sat there and dry heaved a few times, then he puked again.

"You okay?"

Sherlock sat back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He craned his neck around to look at they grey-haired man who had followed him in there. Sherlock groaned, but nodded all the same. He then turned around and grabbed the toilet seat, puking again. There were a few minutes of silence as he contained himself, then he heard the all-too familiar sound of the camera snapping on Greg's mobile.

"I hate you," Sherlock groaned.

He stood up and wiped his mouth again, his hands shaking.

"We oughtta get you back home," Greg said with a wide grin.

Sherlock turned around and shook his head. He rolled up his sleeves and combed a hand through his hair. Then he readjusted his shirt and began to walk towards the door.

"I'm fi-" He fell forward, fortunate that Greg was still sober enough to catch him.

"Think you had a bit too much," Greg said. Sherlock looked up and gave him a lopsided grin.

"Oh yeah," Greg replied, "You're done." The DI pulled Sherlock onto his feet and led him out of the washroom. He sat him down at a table, walked off to say goodbye to everyone else, and then came back and helped Sherlock out of his seat. He led the consulting detective out of the building and back to his car.

"You can't...drive..." Sherlock said.

"Relax," Greg replied, "I've done this before."

He struggled to get his keys into the door, cursing obnoxiously. He called the door lock several derogatory terms, and then he kicked the side of the car in frustration. Sherlock silently stood by and watched, smiling in amusement. Finally, the DI managed to unlock the car. He climbed inside, and Sherlock took a seat next to him.

"You sure thisss...is safe?" Sherlock asked.

Greg jammed his keys into the car ignition, and then he looked over at Sherlock and smiled. His smile faded too quickly, and then he leaned over and grabbed Sherlock. Out of nowhere, he attacked the younger man with a sloppy kiss. Sherlock reached up and pushed him off, staring at him like he was crazy.

"_What the hell_?" Sherlock asked.

Greg grabbed him again and pushed him right up against the door, kissing him . Sherlock tried to push him away, but it was hard to move in the small space of the car.

"Les...Lestrade!"

"Calm down, Sherlock."

"Get off of me."

"Sherlock, it's me. You can trust me."

"Stop. Lestrade-"

The Detective Inspector tried to kiss Sherlock again, but he managed to focus all of his strength and shove the man away. He then began franticly patting down his door, blindly looking for the door handle. Greg came at him again and he tried to kick him. It failed miserably. His ankle was grabbed, and then pulled on so that he was forced to lay down across the front seats. Greg got on top of him. Sherlock started to throw punches, but they were weak. His fighting was sloppy and untrained due to his intoxication.

"Stop that," Greg said as he grabbed the consulting Detective by his wrists and pinned his arms down above his head.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked incredulously. He was terrified; his fear sobering him up real fast. He tried to wriggle free, but the DI was stronger than he looked. He had a damn strong grip on the consulting detective's arms.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Greg replied. He stared down at Sherlock and smiled kindly. He looked so innocent.

Sherlock just wanted to go home.

"I'm trying to do something nice for you," Greg said.

"I- I don't like this," Sherlock stammered. He was trying to calm down, but his heart refused to stop beating so rapidly. His body was coursing with fear. He didn't like being restrained at all. It made him feel weak and helpless.

"Relax," Said Lestrade, "I told you, I'm just trying to help. I mean, _c'mon_ Sherlock... A bloke in his thirties, still a _virgin_? It's a bit embarrassing, don't you think?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. He tried with all of his strength to pull free of The detective Inspector's grasp, but it was futile. The DI only tightened his grip on him.

"Ow. Stop! You're hurting me!"

"Sorry. You should stop struggling, then."

"Get off of me, you imbecile. I will not tolerate this. Am I understood?"

"Oh," Greg laughed, "Look at you, all macho. Why do you always have to act like that?"

Sherlock bucked, trying desperately to get him off. He kicked his legs around and tried to wriggle free, but still failed. Greg used one hand to hold him down, while using the other to reach for Sherlock's belt. He unbuckled the belt, and then let go of his hands and tugged down on his trousers. As soon as Sherlock had his hands back, he started throwing drunken punches again. Greg managed to pull his trousers down to his ankles, and then he struggled to get them over his shoes. Sherlock kicked him into the door of the car, and he grunted, but quickly regained himself. He then grabbed Sherlock's pants and pulled them off, as well. Before Sherlock had the chance to land another kick, he leaned forward and laid on top of him, grabbing his hands again.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said all wide-eyed, "You're drunk."

"Magnificent deduction, genius."

Sherlock shifted underneath him, uncomfortable with the fact that his lower region was completely exposed. He tried to throw his head into Greg's, but couldn't raise his head very far due to the position he was being held in. He cursed inwardly, and then he threw himself into the seat and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Stop this," He said, "Please."

"There's no need to feel scared, Sherlock. You'll enjoy yourself, I promise."

"No I won't! I said no, Lestrade! Get off of me!"

Sherlock heard the man ontop of him reach for his own belt. His eyes popped open and he looked up at the man staring intensely at him. He felt as if his stomach had jumped into his throat.

"Stop," Sherlock said in the calmest tone he could muster, "I'm not consenting to this. _This is rape_."

Greg let out a low chuckle. He pull down his trousers, and then he grabbed Sherlock's leg and brought it up so that he could correctly position himself between the man's legs.

"It ain't rape if you like it."

Without further preparation, he forced himself into Sherlock and grunted. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he clenched his teeth as hard as he could to prevent himself from screaming in agony. Lestrade slowly pushed himself halfway in, and then he pulled out and repeated the process. His second thrust was less cautious, and was rewarded by the younger man screaming.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled, "Please!"

Greg lowered his head next to his and breathed on his neck. Sherlock pulled his head away and pushed the DI's face away. This resulted in Greg grabbing his arm and holding it at his side. His grip was so strong that Sherlock's hand went numb; he couldn't feel his fingers.

"Please," Sherlock begged, "You're hurting-"

Greg forced his entire cock into him. He hit Sherlock's prostate, forcing the younger man into erection. Sherlock let out an animalistic noise and threw his head back, screaming.

"**_Greaaaah_**!"

He used his free hand to grab the car seat and squeeze, focusing on the strength he put into that. Greg didn't stop. He continued to do as he wanted, thrusting into him as if he just didn't care whether or not he hurt him. He eventually got braver and began to thrust faster; more violently. This resulted in even more discomfort and pain on Sherlock's end. However, Sherlock eventually just gave up and laid there. He was smart enough to realize that it was too late to prevent from happening, and he knew that it wouldn't really matter if he got the DI to stop, anyway. Too much damage had already been done. He might as well just give up and let the man finish.

So Sherlock fell motionless and escaped the only way that he knew he could. He closed his eyes and pretended like nothing was happening. He mentally ran away and hid in the depths of his mind palace, hoping that it would all be over soon.

And then Greg slammed himself against him one more time and held himself there as he climaxed. He let out a low moan, and then he fell on Sherlock and just laid there a while. Sherlock was pulled out of his own thoughts and brought back into reality. He could feel his supposed friend's warm breath against his neck and against his ear. He could smell the alcohol.

Then the DI pulled out of him, pulled his trousers up, and sat up.

Sherlock scrambled to sit up and grab his clothes. He quickly put his trousers on, not even bothering with his pants. Then he zipped his trousers and pushed himself directly against the door, wanting to be as far away from the man next to him as possible. Greg put the vehicle in gear and pushed on the gas. He continued driving down the road as if nothing had happened. He even glanced over at Sherlock and gave him a lopsided grin.

"See?" He said, "It wasn't that bad."

Sherlock just stared at him. His arse was too moist, and it made him uncomfortable. There was pain, but fortunately not a lot. Greg had been relatively gentle with him. He probably wouldn't even bleed. But still.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Chin up."

They veered off a bit, but Greg managed to pull back into the correct lane. His driving was still obviously drunk, but Sherlock didn't want to say anything. He couldn't say anything. His mind was crowded with thousands of useless, painful thoughts, and he was too distracted by them to really register his surroundings. And then the car suddenly made an abrupt turn and smashed right into a nearby building. Sherlock flew forward and hit his head on the dashboard, falling unconscious immediately.


End file.
